
Class "PS ^ " 
Book JujLLi^ 
Cop)iightN? 



COFnilGKT DEPOBIK 



POEMS 



BY 

KATHARINE HOWARD 

Author of "Candle Flame," "Eve," 
"The Book of the Serpent," etc. 




BOSTON 

SHERMAN, FRENCH & COMPANY 

1914 






COPYMOHT, 1914 
ShERMAK, FuXCH &> COMPAKT 



NOV -6 1914 



©CiA3S8263 



TO 
MY FATHER AND MY MOTHER 

IN THEIR YOUTH 



CONTENTS 

MOON-FARING page 

THE SHALLOP OF THE MOON LAY LOW . 1 

hist! ARE THEY ELFIN THINGS? . . 2 

WHEN STARS IN SILVER SANDALS ... 3 

THE MOON HAS TIPPED HER SILVER HORN . 4 

WHEN PULSING THROUGH THE AIR I FEEL . 5 

REFULGENT IN THE SAPPHIRE NIGHT . . 6 
REACH NOT TO ME, THOU YOUNG MAY MOON 7 

AS A LAPWING FLIES ...... 9 

DEAR LOVE TO THEE 10 

TO LITTLE THINGS . 11 

IN FOREST PATHS . 12 

RIVER OF ME 13 

MONOTONY 14 

NOM DE PLUME 15 

ON WINDY DAWNS 17 

WHEN RIFTED CLOUDS 18 

THE SPRING-TIME SNOW 19 

YE BLOSSOM BOUGHS 20 

THE WORLD IS BEAUTIFUL 21 



PAGE 

AS WHEN BEFORE THE FIRE I SIT . . 22 

IN THE DARK NIGHT 23 

DEEP THROUGH THE WINDOWS OF YOUR 

EYES 24 

OUT OF THE HEART OF GOD TO ME . . . 25 

YOU SAID ADIEU 26 

TO HELEN 27 

IN THE DEAR GARDEN OF MY DREAMS . . 28 

INTO THE GREEN VASE OF MY YOUTH . . 29 

EXQUISITE ONE 30 

GRACEFUL FRONDS OF MAIDEN -HAIR . 31 
A FRESH WIND BLEW FROM HEAVEN TO ME 32 

1 WONDER WHEN 33 

BEFORE I SLEEP 34 

ELIXIR BRIMS THE VASE OF GOLD ... 35 

YOUNG GIRL WANDERING AMONG THE 

HILL TOPS 37 

I POURED WATER INTO A BOWL ... 38 

IT IS ABOUT THOSE SECRETS .... 40 
THE FLOWER THAT COMETH UP . . .42 

BARRIER 45 

NORTH NORTH WEST 46 

BAR UNIQUE 48 

POET CLAY 49 

THE LAUREL CROWNED 50 

MOMENT OF PLEASURE 51 



PAGE 

ISLE O' DREAMS 52 

THE BELLS OF BEUZEC 54 

CONCARNEAU 5iy 

grand'mere looks on 57 

the jasmine flower 59 

glamourye 61 

FOR YOU 62 

grand'mere 63 

WILL O' THE WISP 65 

THE WHEEL 66 

WHENEVER ON A GRAVE I SIT . . . . 71 

SONG OF THE FIFE AND DRUM .... 75 

AFTER THE FASHION OF NEED .... 77 



MOON-FARING 



The shallop of the moon lay low, 
A great star grasping at her horn, 
Her grossesse merged in halo 
And elfin flutes on the wind borne, — 
O heart o' me! Such fluting! 
Ropes of silver I saw swung 
From star to star and fairies swinging 
And swaying to the airs they sung 
And lilting to their singing — 
O heart o' me! Such singing! 
There was a pricking in the air, 
Whip — snap — of fairy repartee — 
And floating near — O clear! O rare! 
The elfin horns blared merrilie — 
O heart o' me! Such blaring! 
The shallop of the moon low lorn 
Among the clouds was borne. 
The great star graspt her horn, 
A falling globe down flared — 
And far the trumpets blared! 
O heart o' me! Such faring! 



[1] 



Hist! Are they elfin things 
Astride the moon-rays? 
Certes, how they do lilt 
And leer at me, — inconsequential fays- 
Silver threads they've spun 
Fine, fine as silk 
And shining as the sun. 
Ah! People of that ilk. 
Such eerie things they do; 
Moon-folk they are 
Or from some neighboring star 
Have taken flight — Hist! 
Ah! What's this, and this. 
Soft as a flower's kiss? 
I'm spun about! Is't 
They have me caught? 
Certes! Strange folk they are, 
Quick as a thought. 
Hist! They are elfin things. 



[2] 



When stars in silver sandals 

Tread the radiant way 

And throbbing night 

Mysterious nears the day, 

When to retreat the crescent moon 

Hies bashful to prepare 

Behind the clouds her disarray 

For benediction of the sun, 

'Tis then beware! 

Then 'tis the influence of the night 

Holds most its sway, 

'Tis then the night 

Gives up her throbbing self to day — 

When stars in silver sandals 

Tread the radiant wav. 



[3] 



The moon has tipped her silver horn 

Of stars into the night — 

A-down they drift in wayward flight 

Or range in glorious height, 

A jewelled parterre bright. 

The moon has tipped her silver horn 

Of stars into the night — 

Of wafted sparks of incense borne 

Aloft, when to the darkening light 

The moon has tipped her silver horn 

Of stars into the night. 



[4] 



When pulsing through the air I feel 
The perfumes of the night, 
A spirit grows within my heart, 
A wild and wicked elfin sprite 
Owns me till the first streak of light,- 
When pulsing through the air I feel 
The perfumes of the night. 
Away! Away! In joyous flight, 
Thoughtless and care-free quite, 
A heedless happy pagan sprite, — 
When pulsing through the air I feel 
The perfumes of the night. 



[5] 



Refulgent in the sapphire night, 
Puissant moon of Spring, 
Drawing the incense of the Earth 
In flower offering. 
Refulgent in the sapphire night. 
About the fairy hour you seem 
So near and yet so rapt, — 
So real, yet like a dream — 
Wondrous full moon — 
Refulgent in the sapphire night. 
And ever climbing, climbing higher 
Attended by your waiting star, 
O moon, to zenith height. 
Wending from far to far, 
Full moon of mystery, — 
Puissant moon of Spring, 
Refulgent in the sapphire night. 



[6] 



Reach not to me, thou young May moon, 

Thy long white arms 

O thou seducer! Thou dear seducer! 

Reach not thy wavering arms — 

Sure — 'twas thine April sister had 

Me foolish — making verse to her. 

O thou seducer! Thou dear seducer! 

Thou hast me fickle, mad — 

No! No! Look away — thou'rt looking 

In my window, moon-maid ! 

Take thy fingers off the jonquils — 

Thy silver fingers — 

Ah! Dieu! Those streaks of silver! 

Thou'rt putting beauty touches warily — 

Seducer — thou dear seducer — 

Ah! Thou'rt witching me 

Reach not — 



[7] 



AS A LAPWING FLIES 

TO ELISABETH 

I saw a woodsy look come in thine eyes, 
The hush of listening had crossed thy face — 
Thine eyebrows lifted in a line of grace — 
I had not thought that thou wert forest- 
wise — 
Sudden — thy beryl eyes grew blue as skies 
Where leaning hills their mirrored forms re- 
trace 
With drifting clouds in glassy sea's em- 
brace, — 
Thou changest quickly, as a lapwing flies. 

Is't he of Hamelin with his magic pipe 
Who whistles thee to wanderings far and 

near? 

Is it his mystic whispering haunts thine ear 

When we hear not? — Pan was his prototype. 

Far off he whistles thee — thy spirit keens — 

Following him into his maze of dreams. 



[9] 



DEAR LOVE TO THEE 

TO R. G. B. P. 

Thou sayest — "a sonnet to the morning air," 
But equally, dear love, 'twill sing its praise 

to thee. 
As all exquisite beauty means to me 
A phase of thy dear self, so all things fair. 
Depths, breadths, of life, and the fresh morn- 
ing air, — 
As thou art the all-giving, the most free 
Of all God's creatures, — even giving me 
In thy divine creative love a share. 

For thou art woman, all-surrounding one ; 
In the maternity of thy dear breast 
The turmoil of the factions shall find rest, — 
'Tis thus with love divine thy work is done. 
Woman, thou art the moon, thou art the sun ; 
In thee, dear love, all things of life are one. 



[10] 



TO LITTLE THINGS 

They are the httle rains that slowly seep 
To roots of flowers, which comfort and re- 
new, — 
Even as the flower is fed by morning dew, 
And quiet night puts the young blooms 

asleep, 
Rocked by the little wind — most dear of all. 
Dear little things, with little tender ways 
That are not known, that have no lauds of 

praise, — 
But when we turn to go — they softly call. 

O dear caressing littleness that clings, — 
The little crying wind, the little rain. 
That calls us when we may not come again, — 
Tender and sweet as are all gentle things — 
The clinging hands, the sound of running 

feet 
To bid farewell, — so dear, so sobbing sweet. 



[11] 



IN FOREST PATHS 

In forest paths I met thee wandering, 
The wild flowers following in thy wake, — 
Thou wert so lovely that they did mistake 
Thee for their sister, and thus unerring, 
Following thee to their own preferring, — 
Wisely knowing thee as one of themselves, — 
In woodland paths and among forest elves 
Thy walks with their beauty embroidering. 

But of thy perfume they knew not indeed, — 
'Each breathing its own they knew not of 

thine, 
Fair forest flowers of past Summer-time. 
They are gone from the wood, gone from the 

mead, 
Gone with the Summer, as fragrant and fleet. 
Thou, in my heart thou art still blooming 

sweet. 



[12] 



RIVER OF ME 

"You waste yourself in various ways; 
Keep in your strong deep channel," said my 

friend, 
"And thus conserve your forces to an end; 
Search not for honours in the with'ring 

bays,— 
The surfeit is the sure reward of praise!" 
Thus did she tell me how my ways to mend. 
And how my little streamlets not to send : 
But I had things to learn in winding ways. 

It happened that a brook I had sent out 
Returned a little farther down my stream 
To tell me things that it had been about, — 
Thus proving true what I had thought a 

dream. 
So now I reach them out to search for truth. 
And thus perpetual I keep my youth. 



[13] 



MONOTONY 

That night we stranded at the Isle of Dread 
There was not any sound that we could hear, 
Though Jacquelyn listened, and she had an 

ear 
Attuned to slightest sound. But ah! In- 
stead 
We fell a-trembling and our hearts grew 

dead. 
I touched her in the dark, I had such fear, — 
And something splashed my hand — it was her 

tear. 
"What fate has driven us to this shore?" I 

said. 
"I saw it in a dream," low answered she; 
''No growing things nor young are in this 

land." 
She touched me as she spoke, with shaking 

hand — 
"Where only there is dead monotony, — 
No young things here, where nothing grows," 

she said, — 
"A woeful land where the young flowers are 

dead." 

[14] 



NOM DE PLUME 

So am I hidden under thy soft wing, 
Safe in retreat from the too potent glare. 
My soul, like flower in precinct of the night, 
Grows peacefully, secure from poison sting. 
Quiet, serene as other gentle thing, — 
Or, when my spirit moves to words of might. 
Under thy wing secure I rest from sight, 
'Scaped breathless as a fay to fairy ring. 

I pray thee, fetch me not into the glare. 
Expose myself not to the light of day; 
My work is given to the world, the say 
Is theirs, — myself is myself's own affair. 
And so beneath my nom de plume I creep. 
Thus far away from dead'ning things to keep. 



[15] 



TO JULIETTE 

On windy dawns 

Afar my unbound spirit roves 

A-search for roving spirit kin, — 

A-streak through sands where foaming droves 

Of serried waves come trooping in 

On windy dawns. 
Ah! There is breathing fresh and free 
Among the waves that sway and beat 
The cradhng bosom of the sea 
And cry my roving spirit feet 

On windy dawns. 



[17] 



TO K. J. B. 

When rifted clouds 

Like herded flocks enfleece the sky 

And chilly winds of Spring adrift 

Heed not the amorous sigh 

Of flowers that would their heads uplift,- 

When rifted clouds 

Like herded flocks enfleece the sky, — 

Heralds they are, but with the blast 

Of Winter piping into Spring; 

And yet by rote of memory past 

The Spring-time choir doth sing, — 

When rifted clouds 

Like herded flocks enfleece the sky. 



[18] 



The spring-time snow 

Falls gently, touching the earth 

Caressingly with loving fingers; 

Giving itself to the new birth 

Of flowers, it softly lingers 

Perhaps a day and then 'tis gone — 

The spring-time snow — 

But its fair soul remains, — 

Into the fragrance of the rose 

It breathes and grows. 

We forget — after the sun has shone 

A little, after the spring-time rains — 

The spring-time snow. 



[19] 



TO CHARLOTTE 

Ye blossom boughs 

Of apple trees, down trail 

And shed your fragrance everywhere. 

See the light clouds a-sail, 

Wreathed in the golden air, — 

A dream of Spring. 

Is aught so lovely anywhere? 

The mating birds on wing, 

The crocus peeping unaware, 

And every growing thing 

All fragrant in a riot rare, — 

A dream of spring. 

And loveliest, most fragrant, fair. 

Ye blossom boughs. 



[20] 



The world is beautiful — 
All day I've thought about 
The beauty of the world, — 
'Twas woven in and out 
The texture of the day. 
Like petaled flowers upcurled, 
About each thought it shone — 
The beauty of the world — 
A gracious light it seemed. 
Day has its pennant furled 
And still the light shines on — 
'Tis true, I have not dreamed — 
The world is beautiful. 



[21] 



As when before the fire I sit 

And dream, and glorious visions flit — 

Although ethereal, dream-wise — 

Between the firelight and mine eyes — 

Ah 1 Some divine nobility a-surge 

Within my soul doth urge 

Me hero-ward, — and then the flame 

Dies down and in my soul the same, — 

The glorious visions flit 

As when before the fire I sit 

And dream. 



[22] 



In the dark night 

When I lie wide awake 

My thoughts grow mystic-wise — 

Great thoughts I have that make 

A brightness cross my eyes 

In the dark night, — 

As if a light shone clear 

And fine from out my brain 

Or someone held a lantern near 

Someone who holds me dear 

In the dark night. 



[23] 



TO B. T. 

Deep through the windows of your eyes 
Into your soul I looked, and there 
Saw windows through and through, 
Eyes through eyes and all the vista fair, 
On, on into the infinite blue. 
The wonderful inimitable true 
Sincerity of the incarnate you, — 
Deep through the windows of your eyes. 



[24] 



TO M. T. B. 

Out of the Heart of God to me 
You came, to clasp a hand unknown, 
Dear generous one; why, you have grown 
Into my heart through His, — a trinity we 
have become. 

You knew me not, and yet your hand 
Clasps mine and we are one; 
The currents meet along the silver strand, 
So generous one, to me you came 
Out of the Heart of God. 



[25] 



TO HAMEL 

You said adieu — 

I wonder if you thought 

About the meaning of that word, 

Or how on me it wrought 

Prophetic sadness as I heard — 

I wonder if you knew, 

Or whether it was only I 

To whom the word told true, — 

Always I wonder why 

You said adieu. 



[26] 



To Helen- 
There 's magic in thy name — 
When I would write, the web of fancy 
Encircles thee with necromancy — 
Thy name embowers thee in wreathes 
Of beauty — like thine amber hair. 
Poets to thee have made many poems 
From that far time when beauty 
Drowned the memory of despair; 
To one, Poe wrote to her of the "enchanted 

garden"; 
To thee, who wearest in thy name 
The wreathes of many poets, 
Could I say more than this — 
To Helen? 



[27] 



In the dear garden of my dreams 
Are rhododendrons and pale hlies tall, 
And roses ripening 'gainst the sunkissed wall. 
Their little gleams of brightness shine 
Entangled mid their burnished leaves, 
And languishing the clasping vine 
Each perfumed breath receives. 
The peacock stands a lordly sight, 
With his metallic plumage bright 
Reflected in the quivering light; — 
So bright his rainbow colour gleams 
That all the glory of him seems 
To centralize the sunny beams 
In the dear garden of my dreams. 



[28] 



D. TO B. 

Into the green vase of my youth 
One summer day you thrust a rose, 
And with the rose some seeds of truth. 
Now from my vase the rose tree grows 
In burnished green with spheres of gold,- 
And thorns are hidden here and there 
For that free lance who cries "Behold!" 
The careless one who robs the fair, 
Who needs much pricking to beware. 
And now so tall my strong tree grows 
Alike in fragrance and in truth, 
Because — because you thrust a rose 
Into the green vase of my youth. 



[29] 



Exquisite one ! 

Golden against the blue, thou yellow rose. 

Rose-heart, with winged leaves thy beauty 

grows 
When Spring into the arms of Summer flows. 

Now 'tis November drear, — 

Dark dawns and nights of fear, — 

Winter is near. 

Branch bare, — nor leaf nor bud, — 

All of their golden crest into the mire 

pressed, — 
Ah! 'Tis rose-mire! 
In the black soaking ooze 
Didst all thy beauty lose, 
Or will thy spirit fuse 
Into rose-mire, maybe through my desire. 
Something of fire divine? 
Give, and thou canst, the sign. 

Sudden before mine eyes I saw the rose arise 
In her sweet beauty fair, perfuming all the 

air, 
Fused in the sacred fire created by desire 
In memory's crucible, out of rose-mire — 
Exquisite one! 

[30] 



O graceful fronds of maiden-hair, 

Most delicate of ferns, 

You make the world more fair; 

You greet me from the window sill 

Each morning when the sun's ray burns 

The mist of sleep away, until 

You've grown a picture to my eyes, 

Like forest-thoughts against blue skies; 

Like forest-thoughts — my dream returns — 

Far from the rumbling city street. 

For cool green things my spirit yearns, — 

Because of you, — to my tired feet 

The dusty pavement of the street 

Is a green path with wild-flowers sweet; 

You make the world more fair. 

Most delicate of ferns, 

O graceful fronds of maiden-hair. 



[31] 



A fresh wind blew from Heaven to me 

Straight through the gates of memory; 

It was a httle after dawn, and ecstasy 

Was in the air. 

The garden where I walked with dew was 
sweet, 

And violets clustered near my feet, 

Faint fragrance — rare 

A fresh wind blew from Heaven to me 

Straight through the gates of memory ; 

It was a little after dawn — pulsing — vibrat- 
ing 

With the life of new creating 

Quivered the air. 

A fresh wind blew from Heaven to me, 

And on into Eternity 

It circled to that quiet sea 

From whence and where 

A fresh wind blew from Heaven to me. 



[32] 



I wonder when 

Will come that hour of mine, 

The hour I may not share, 

When from the warm sunshine 

Of gentle Earth into the rare 

Ethereal of the divine 

My soul shall wander, — where 

I may not know. — Sublime — 

Perchance, for me too fair. 

I wonder when — 

And yet I would not know: 

I love too well the things of Earth; 

I am not ready for the glow 

To thrill me to new birth. — 

And yet, child-like, although 

Too well I love my Earth, 

I wonder when. 



[33] 



Before I sleep 

There comes the breath of prayer, — 

The worldly things pass by 

Before I sleep; 

The wings of peace are taking care, 

And like a happy sigh 

A-flutter in the air, 

Before I sleep 

My thoughts to beauty fly, 

Suspiring into prayer 

Before I sleep. 



[34] 



TO M. S, T. 

Elixir brims the vase of gold, 

The purple hills draw near, 

The mysteries of old, of old, 

Are coming clear. 

Elixir brims the cup of gold. 

The sparkle quivers at the brim 

And falls in shining showers, — 

I see beyond the purple rim 

The radiant towers. 

Elixir brims the vase of gold; 

In ecstasy my spirit cries 

To those far fanes, Behold ! Behold ! 

And upward flies. 

Far — far — I see with vision's eyes 

The sun-gates open flare, — 

On soaring pinions I arise 

Strong, eagle-wise. 

The mysteries of old, of old. 

Are coming clear, 

The purple hills grow near. 

Elixir brims the vase of gold. 

[35] 



TO FENTRESS 

Young girl wandering among the hill tops, 
Wherefore do you chant divinely? 
Why do you move yourself in rhythm? 
Is it because you are a part of something, 
A part of something to which you must come 

finally? 
Your eyes have a look of further seeing, 
But your words flow lightly. 
It is when you chant— then only— that you 

sound divine. 

Young girl rhythmically wandering among 

the hill tops, 
Why is it thus you chant divinely? 



[37] 



I POURED WATER INTO A 
BOWL 

Infinitesimal things charming, whence do you 
come? 

A short time since I looked and you were not. 

Thoughtfully I poured water into a bowl; 

I set therein some dry husks, 

And now you are reaching up and down, — 

Long white tendrils delicately feeling down- 
ward, 

Pointed green shoots deliciously reaching up- 
ward. 

You go both down and up, nothing but the 
entire Universe will do for you. 

I am wondering if it is with sublime uncon- 
sciousness you do your reaching. 

Green things delicate, why is your pushing 

limited? 
You who a short time since were primary, 
You who have an immediate memory, 
I think that I see in one of you a swelling: 



[38] 



Does that mean that a flower will grow, 
A flower that may have a sweet odour? 
And all this because, thoughtfully, I poured 
water over dry husks into a bowl. 



[39] 



IT IS ABOUT THOSE SECRETS 

My soul, come, if only for a few moments, 

Come out of the nebula which surrounds you ; 
be bare, — 

You with whom I am intimate yet unac- 
quainted. 

You with whom all of my life I have lived. — 

But you? Where did you dwell before? 
And where will you dwell after? 

Yes, my soul, there is the difficult part, — it 
is about those secrets. 

You are sometimes careless while I sleep, 

And so I go with you among your reminis- 
cences. 

It is about those secrets, — they trouble me. 

There is no explaining them: when I am 
awake you are dumb on the subject. 

I request you, my soul, either be frank with 
me, 

Freely telling me all, or put a padlock on the 
door 

Of that place where you keep your secrets. 



[40] 



I beg of you, my soul, do not leave the key 

about where I may find it. 
I would not go alone among those secrets of 

yours, 
I need you to interpret them. I hke not half 

knowledge, it disturbs me. 



[41] 



THE FLOWER THAT COMETH 
UP 

To him, the self righteous one, to him who 
with subhme pity looks down from a 
great height, 

To him I speak. Come down into the val- 
leys and get experience. 

Do not annihilate us utterly, O Man with no 
experience. 

Come down a little, that you may hear more 
plainly. 

Come down a little, that you may see more 
clearly, — 

You who see nothing beautiful in dirt. 

Come down and look a little, you have not 
done your share of digging, you have not 
thought about the flower that cometh up. 

You who walk among the virtues. Ah! 
You know not true. 

You believe in charity, but of the things for 
which you have it you know nothing. 

You have not been incarnate with them, not 
thoroughly, not yet. 

[42] 



It is that you must be reground upon the 
stones which grind the small. 

In a few aeons you will climb again out of 
the dirt, 

And with some reminiscences — maybe. 



[48] 



BARRIER 

THE "BAD LANDS" 

The long, low, level hills against the sky, — 
they call a halt: 

The barrier of the world. Thus far, no far- 
ther, shall ye go. 

The rest is all unfinished. 

Beyond, there is a place where winds are 
made, 

And sometimes one escapes and whirls its 
way in ruthless wrack 

Down through the haunts of Man. Ap- 
proach the barrier not. 

The earth is torn in wreaths and mounds, and 
hot, — 

The fires are near. 

No footstep must approach the barrier wall 

Lest looking over one discover all. 



[45] 



NORTH NORTH WEST 

TO ELEANOR 

No footsteps there are where the sun shines 

alone, 
Where no death of a man has been known : 
A land without life, without death, 
Where the wail of the wind wandereth. 
Where mystery hides in the caverns, 
Deep down where the sun never looks — 
Alone with the sun and the wind — 
Alone with the moon and the stars — 
In the land where no footsteps are ; 
Where star communeth with star, 
Where mountains and clouds are abreast 
In the land north north of the West — 
Is a dream in a dream that's forgot 
Of something that was and is not. 

In the land where no footsteps are, 

In the drift of the world afar 

The wraiths rendezvous and mourn; 

On the north wind their keening is borne, — 

For this dream in a dream that's forgot 

[46] 



For this something that was and is not. 
O land without life, without death, 
Where the wail of the wind wandereth — 
Afar on the wind borne— faint to mine ear 
Like a breath— Is't the Spirit of Future I 
hear? 



[47] 



BAR UNIQUE 

TO JONJON 

God made you in his image to stoop above a 

book? 
Stand up erect and look! Learn from God's 

book — 
His free hand drawings, forest, sea and sky. 
Study the stars at night 
'Mid velvet darkness and bespangled light. 
In the deep wood go search, and in the lave 
Of rhythmic wave find symphonies. 
In the far future, thought of Man 
Shall solve for the supernal race 
A system free from barrier, — 
As is the system of the Universe 
Whose bar unique is space. 



[48] 



POET CLAY 

TO C. P. A. 

Yes, many poets to the making of the perfect 

one; 
He must be made of poet clay when all is 

done. 
Break this one also; he hath fine aroma, 
But weakness.-I loved him. And this one: Ah I 
I worked on him at length. 
Yes, break them all. Their cries? 
Well! What? How otherwise 
It is not given to know the wheres and whys. 
Drop tears, but go on with the breaking ; 
They must be broken small for making. 
Tears moisten well the mixing, 
And some day you will know 
When rises a Poet out of this broken clay, 
And I, the Potter, to greater Godhood grow. 
Yes, many poets broken to the one, — 
No swift uprising from the common clod. 
It must be poet clay or best undone — 
Unfit that I should breathe upon. 
Did you not know that poet aroma is the 

breath of God? 

[49] 



THE LAUREL CROWNED 

The bust was beautiful indeed ; 
A crown of laurel bound the head. 
What name? I asked, as if one need 
A name, — thoughtful, I said, — 
When laurel crowned. 

She went to the enchanted wood 
For Daphne laurels, — so they said, — 
She left her home and all that stood 
For home to bind the laurels on her head,- 
So she was crowned. 

And who was she? This other one 
Not laurel crowned, — and still behold 
The noble brow, — what had she done? 
Oh! Motherhood, — naught to be told,— 
Not to be crowned. 

I wondered, as I passed along 
Among the busts bound and unbound 
Of realms of art, of realms of song, 
What means it to be laurel crowned, — 
Just laurel crowned. 

[50] 



MOMENT OF PLEASURE 

Do the lights of the street make a black 

shadow? 
Is it a thick darkness, Woman, so none may 

see in? 
Does never the bird in your heart brood to 

the flight? 
Long ago was it pierced into numbness? 
Woman ! Woman ! 
Let us come in to the comforting. 
Can never your head find a bosom place? 
Dull with the aching of ages. 
Can never your head find a soothing place 
Save in the Potter's Field earth? 
Woman ! Woman ! 

Long hence .... Long hence .... 

In the rose light of dawn, 

Out of the earth of the Potter's Field 

Groweth a tree. 
Sweet! Sweet! A little bird trills in the 
tree. 



[51] 



ISLE O' DREAMS 

TO E. E. G. 

Every poet has an island 

Somewhere in the sea. 

Sometimes in dreams my island rises, 

Green as green can be. 

There is silver mist around, 

And a faint entrancing sound 

Of lapping waves upon the sand. 

There's a castle on my island ; 

It is terraced to the sea; 

And a chamber in a tower is for me ; 

It is hung about in faded tapestry, 

And the window high looks out upon the sea. 

I sit there in my chamber and the sun shines 

dreamily 
Upon heroic figures in the faded tapestry. 
In the mirror on the wall myself I can not 

see, — 
I see the room reflected, but not a stroke of 

me. 

[52] 



A sadness comes upon me because I cannot 

trace 
Myself within the mirror. There are tears 

upon my face 
When I wake, and yet so well I know 
That sometime to my island I shall go. 

Every poet has an island 
Somewhere in the sea. 
Sometimes in dreams my island rises 
Green as green can be. 



[53] 



THE BELLS OF BEUZEC 

I hear the bells of Beuzec ringing 
In early dawns, and cuckoos singing, — 
Lying awake, and thinking — thinking — 
And all the sounds of dawn a-drinking 
In, besides the cuckoo's song. 
Cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo. 

Lying awake, and yet a-dreaming, — 
The chimes of Paradise a-seeming 
On these sweet dawns so very near, — 
The bells a-chiming far and clear 
In Beuzec with the cuckoo's song. 
Cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo. 

Through trills of others birds a-singing. 
Yes, even while the chimes are ringing 
I hear the pulse beat all along in 
Heart throbs in the cuckoo's song 
In Beuzec, in the cuckoo's song. 
Cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo. 



[54] 



When in the dawn I hear bells ringing, 
To Beuzec Ville my thoughts go winging. 
The chimes of dawn are ever bringing 
To me the sound of cuckoo's singing, 
Far away Beuzec's cuckoo song, 
Cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo. 



[55] 



CONCARNEAU 

No matter to what land I go 
My dreams are all of Concarneau. 

Spirit of the Druid Past, 
Have you a spell around me cast? 
It makes no difference where I go, 
At night I live in Concarneau. 

In lovely Venice all the day 

1 sail upon the water-way, 
Enraptured with la vie sur I'eau, — 
By night I'm back in Concarneau. 

I meet a friend — I say hello! 
Meet me tonight at so and so — 
And then I think and say — Ah no! 
Tonight I'll be in Concarneau. 

I'm weary that I can't forget, — 
Sometimes I think I am, — and yet 
Perhaps I love to have it so. 
Always to dream of Concarneau. 

[56] 



GRAND'MERE LOOKS ON 

Dieu! What a nimble shaft of girl, 

A graceful slender stem of girl: 

Tip-tilted head, — the breezes curl 

The loosened golden hair. 

The young legs strong for dance, — 

And, as I live, a golden glance 

Shines through the silken hose; 

Pure gold you are from head to toes. 

Ah, whirl away, and one, two, three, — 

A rush, a silken swirl, 

A slide, a laugh, a whirl, — 

With all youth's beauty to entrance. 

Delicious length of girl, — 

My heartbeats ache my side, — 

The very ecstasy of youth laid bare — 

Because I know — Ah, well-a-day! 

Strong slender girl, make good, make gay, 

And through the joyous summers whirl, 

Delicious rippling breeze of girl. 

The swaying shoulders, shining head 

Uptilted, — with the riant face 

And the strong backward slide 

Controlled with strenuous grace. 

[57] 



Alack I How my worn pulses thrill 

To youth a-brim with ecstasy, 

And laughters all my senses fill. 

The pagan nymphs and fauns trapse by, 

A-limping in your steps, O girl! 

Whirl on, nor pause nor look 

If peeping Pan be there forsooth! 

A maddened Plan he is in truth. 

Weak kneed and bandy legged. 

Whirl on ! Whirl on ! Long may you whirl, 

Ecstatic shaft of girl, 

A one, two, three, the poising toe, 

The slide, the pause, the whirl, — 

Your gray eyes glistening sweet. 

Long may you dance on fleeting feet, 

Delicious length of girl. 



[58] 



THE JASMINE FLOWER 

The fragrance sweet of a jasmine flower 

Enticed me once in a mystic hour, — 

I needed no help but a climbing vine 

To enter that garden of pale moonshine, — 

Oh, the climbing vine and the pale moonshine. 

The odorous breath of a jasmine flower 
Can carry me back to that night and hour, — 
For in the garden a vision fair 
Of a lovely lady was lying there, — 
Oh, the vision fair that was lying there. 

Oh, was she asleep or was she dead? 

She was lying there with the flowers for a 

bed, — 
Her long hair swept her from head to feet, — 
No garment beside but the fragrance sweet 
Of the jasmine flower and the witching hour. 

It was years ago and now I know 
That the vision which set my heart aglow 
Was no mortal sight in the pale moonlight — 

[59] 



But the spirit that haunteth the jasmine 

flower. 
And the magic power of the witching hour. 



[60] 



GLAMOURYE 

The haunting music of that fair summer 

Like rhythmic wings in flight 

Enchanted the ways their footsteps wandered 

And bewitched their dreams at night. 

The phantoms of beauty but half remembered 

Wavered across their sight — 

The shadows of shades and their reflections, 

The visions of things unreal — 

Until they seemed like wraiths a-groping 

In the drift-land of ideal. 

Her face was a flame in a dim light 
And her soul burned to his eyes — 
Each throbbing heart-beat harked 
And stilled the ebbing night. 



[61] 



FOR YOU 

GEORGE LYON, JR. 

I said that I would make a poem for you 

sometime, 
For you to read if perfect rhythm tuned the 

perfect rhyme. 

But oh ! The music of your voice 
Gave so much beauty to each separate word 
That when you read I did not know 
That 'twas my poem I heard. 

It was your soul which spoke beneath each 

line, 
Your voice that made the rhythm haunt the 

rhyme, — 
It was indeed your poem, not mine. 



[62] 



GRAND'MERE 

Grand'mere! Grand'mere! Is't you would 
sleep, Grand'mere? 

No, Eunice, 'tis that I would wake — 

Thousands of morns at dawning-time 

The little wind has wakened me 

That wakes the sleeping dawn, — 

The tender little sigh of joy, the herald of 

the sun. 
The soft caressing voice that makes the 

World so dear, — 
Like all the little sobbing things that make 

the Earth so dear. 
What is it calling low and clear? Go, 

Eunice, go and see. 

Grand'mere! Grand'mere! Why are you 
sad, Grand'mere? 

What makes me sad, you ask? 
Because the little wind I may not hear. 
Thousands of morns at dawning-time 

[63] 



I've listened for the little wind 

That wakes the sleeping World — -the gentle 

little wind — 
The little, sobbing, sighing wind that makes 

the Earth so dear. 
Go, Eunice, go and see what is it calls so 

low, so clear. 
What is it calls? It seems to call for me. 

Grand'mere! Grand mere! I am afraid. 
The candle flares so strange, — I am afraid, 
Grand'mere ! 

What is it, Eunice? Go and see what is it 

calls so clear. 
Go, Eunice, go and see, — go open wide the 

door and have no fear; 
It is the little wind of dawn that makes the 

World so dear, — 
So soft, so clear, so well I hear — . The 

little wind has wakened me. 

Grand'mere ! Grand'mere ! 



[64] 



WILL O' THE WISP 

Will o' the wisp, thou wicked urchin, thou 
imp, 

Thou hast me lame — a sorry limp — 

Thou hast me fagged a-flinging 

At thee and thou grinning. 

Why wilt thou hop on graves? 

Have at thee, thou corpse-light! 

What! Where? Hast thou gone from 
sight ? 

Hah! Hah! I see thee hip'ty hopping be- 
hind the tomb! 

Come forth, thou drip of candle-rheum. 

Thou lantern winding-sheet! 

What sort of dancing is't thou'rt at? 

Hey? Trying to make me come a-near? 

A bowing, mowing, this way, that — 

Thou'rt will o' wisping — that's what thou'rt 
at. 

Trying to make me come a-near — 

If I do catch thee it shall cost thee dear. 

Bif! Have at thee, manikin! 

Sdeath! 'Tis a hollow grave I'm in! 

Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! Ah! Will o' wisp! 

[65] 



THE WHEEL 

Alas! The Ladye would know her fate, 
So she knocked three times on the Dooms- 
Day Gate. 
The night was black, it was late and late 
When the Ladye entered the Dooms-Day 

Gate. 
Fate, in a veil that covered her face, 
Was weaving her wonderful web of lace; 
Time, the Potter, was whirring his wheel. 
Turning his vase of woe and weal. 

Said the Ladye fair, "I would know my fate; 
For this have I entered the Dooms-Day 
Gate." 

*'Do not hasten Time, it is wise to wait," 

Under her veil, said the voice of Fate ; 

" 'Tis the vase of your life he is turning 

there ; 
To hurry Time, 'tis a fool would dare." 



[66] 



But the Ladye said, "I would know, for< 

sooth ! 
Let it cost as it will, or wrack or ruth." 

No sooner the words had the Ladye said 
Than hope within her went dead and dead; 
She heard the crash of the Dooms-Day bell 
And all went black as the mouth of Hell ! 
She heard a rumbling afar and near 
And a strange weird voice a-sound in her 
ear — 

"O Riddle Me Ree O eee O eeeee," 
Moaned the wheel that creaked eternally, 
Whirring and whirring around and 'round, 
A thin weird voice of sombre sound 
Winding forever and yet unwound, 
"O Riddle Me Ree O eee O eeeee." 

Whirring on to Eternity, 

A-moan inside of the Dooms-Day Gate, 

The creaking turn of the wheel of Fate, 

Turning early and turning late, 

"O Riddle Me Ree O eee O eeeee"— 



[67] 



"O Riddle Me Ree O eee O eeeee," 
Whirring on to Eternity, 
Louder and louder and dimmer and dim, 
The creak in the center spread to the rim 
Like the sound of a goblet rubbed on the 

brim, 
"O Riddle Me Ree O eee O eeeeeee"— 

"O Riddle Me Ree O eee O eeeee, 
You who would know your fate, hear me. 
Put in your hand in the fateful vase 
The while your pattern of life I trace 
Into the web of my wonderful lace, 

Riddle Me Ree O eee O eeeee." 

As her hand went into the fateful vase. 
Oh, the look that came in that Ladye's face ! 
Crash! Went the sound of the Dooms-Day 

bell. 
The lightnings flashed! O Hell! O Hell! 

*'0 Riddle Me Ree O eee O eeeee — 
You who would fool with destinie, 

1 have you fast in the fateful vase ; 



[68] 



I'll do . . . and I'll do . . . your beautiful 

face — 
I'll weave it into the web of my lace, 

Riddle Me Ree O eee O eeeee — . 

''You will struggle in vain, my fair Ladye. 

1 have your hand in my fatal grasp; 
Till I weave my web it shall not unclasp, 
Not even unto your dying gasp, 

O Riddle Me Ree O eee O eeeee — , 

"O Riddle Me Ree O eee O eeeeee — 
And you shall see what you shall see. 
You may struggle early and struggle late, 
You can not escape from the hand of Fate, — 
The hand of Fate is insatiate. 
O Riddle Me Ree O eee O eeeeeee — 

"The web is woven — your hand is free, — 
Your hand is free and it holds a glass — 
'Tis the glass of Time." "Alas ! Alas ! 
Oh, what has happened ? And where am I ? 
The Ladye cried with a terrible cry. 



[69] 



>> 



"O Riddle Me Ree O eee O eeeeee — 
Look in the glass, my fair Ladye, 
And you can see what I've been about, 
Weaving you in and weaving you out. 
Forever to know and never to doubt, 
O Riddle Me Ree O eee O eeeeeee — 

''O Riddle Me Ree O eeee O eeeeeeee, — 

You who would hurry your destinie 

Look in the glass and see and see, 

O Riddle Me Ree O eeee O eeeeee . . ." 

The voice came fine and the voice came small 

Till it fainted away to nothing at all — 

"O Riddle Me Ree O eeee O eeeeee " 



[70] 



WHENEVER ON A GRAVE I SIT 

Whenever on a grave I sit 
Some fool thing rises out of it; 
If I but twang a fiddle string, 
Forsooth! I can rouse anything. 
In other days I've heard them tell 
Of one who twanged his wife from Hell. 
Between me and my fiddle string, — 
I have no need for such a thing; 
But for a cheerful ghost to shout 
And dance the steps I fling about — 
Yes, for a cheerful ghost to sing 
And dance I'd do 'most anything. 
I'd scrape my fiddle to the deuce 
If I could but a ghost enthuse 
With merriment; 'twould be worth while 
To twang a skull grin to a smile, — 
Or make the cross-bones pat the beat 
When pigeon wings are cut complete. 

T put my fiddle to my chin 

As I would scrape the devil in. 

The while my blithering heart did swell 

To twang a jolly ghost from Hell. 

[71] 



I struck the rambling chord twing twang, — 

And on my blooming word, 

No sooner he the sound had heard 

Than standing the tall tomb beside 

A foolish fellow I espied. 

The tears fell from his socket eyes 

Upon his bosom, cross-bone-wise. 

And mingled with his boney sighs, 

The while his crater eyes he fixt 

Upon the clock that shone betwixt 

The trees, high in the ivy-tower. 

'Twas well upon the midnight hour 
When on the clock he fixt his eye 
And shrilled in wailing tenor high, 
"An opera singer once was I; 
Always to painted moons I cry, 

pretty moon! O pretty moon! For vou 

I die!"— 

1 struck the rambling chord twing twang, — 
"O pretty moon! O pretty moon!" he sang, 
"Always for you I die! I die!" 

His voice went slithering to a sigh; 
I struck the rambling chord twing twang. 
The while the pretty moon he sang. 
[72] 



'Twas then a bitter wind swept by 

And whirled the clouds about the sky 

And rattled him about the knees 

And whistled in the grave-yard trees. 

It struck him with a chattering chill ; 

I heard his spinal column trill. 

"Ha, ha" and "Ha, ha, ha!" he cried, 

And struck his digits side by side; 

He played the castanets and sang. 

And I, the rambling chord twing twang. 

He shook the bones a rattle whang, 

A jiggy tune of dancing tang — 

"O pretty moon! O pretty moon!" he sang; 

I struck the rambling chord twing twang. 

He played the bones and I the fiddle scraped, 
And true it is that there escaped 
From all the graves and clattered out 
A mess of bones, and flung about 
And danced a merry fling, the while 
In idiotic, antic style 
My fool did sing. 
I struck the gibbering string. 
For he was bedlam glad, forsooth! 
To have an audience in truth. 
[73] 



And so they danced in capering cuts, — 
For favors using merry-thoughts, — 
And bones went zipping in and out 
And flipped and flappered all about 
To whistling of the brumal wind, — 
A brumal niveous most unkind. 
And whistling rheumatizing wind. 

The while he played the bones and sang 
The rambling chord I struck twing twang. 
A merry time we had till break of day, — 
And then into their graves they crept away— 
A diddering clattering mess of bones, 
I heard them say in monotones, 
A snuggling down in their graves deep, 
"Come, fiddler man, come down and sleep." 

'Tis true, whenever on a grave I sit 
Some fool thing rises out of it; 
I never twang my fiddle strings 
But that I see these foolish things. 



[74] 



THE SONG OF THE FIFE AND 
DRUM 

Rrrrrrrm Rrrrrrrm Rrrrrrrm te turn turn, 

We are the fife, we are the drum, 

We are the march to battle, — 

The whistHng shrill of the fife 

And the drum's gay rattle. 

Rrrrrrrm Rrrrrrrm Rrrrrrrm te tum tum, 

The shrilling of fire and the drum's gay rattle. 

For'ard, march! How the pulses thrill! 
Keep step, keep step to the drummer's skill. 
To the sound of the drum's gay rattle. 
More red! More red! Cries the flag of 

battle 
March on! March on! For I scent afar 
The dye stuff I'm desiring, — 
The blood of the men of hiring. 
Rrrrrrrm Rrrrrrrm Rrrrrrm te tum tum. 
The shrill of the fife and the drum's gay 

rattle ! 

Ah, hear! Ah, hear! The mighty drums! 
Drums? 'Tis the roar of battle! 

[75] 



Ah, hear! All, hear! 'Tis the fife's loud 

trill! 
Fife? 'Tis the bullet's rattle! 
Cowards! Cowards! They fall around! 
Cowards? Their blood soaks into the 

ground. 

Rrrrrrrm Rrrrrrrrm Rrrrrrrm te turn turn, 
'Tis the Colours' call to the dyeing, 
'Tis the flag needs the blood of killing. 
The glorious deeds for her thrilling, — 
The red for her fading colour — the glory ! 
The man-child craveth his war-time story. 
Rrrrrrrm Rrrrrrrm Rrrrrrm te tum tum 
The shrill of the fife and the drum's gay 
rattle ! 

Step out ! Step out ! Ye men, to the battle ! 
Graves? What matter as to their graves? 
The grass that grows from the blood of braves 
Shows a richer green, grows a brighter 

green, — 
Rrrrrrm Rrrrrrrm Rrrrrrrrm te tum tum, 
The far fife shrills to the muffled drum ! 



[76] 



AFTER THE FASHION OF 
NEED 

Now rhyme me a riddle as fit as a fiddle, — 

And a fiddle is fit indeed, — 

And let it be gay and let it be sad. 

And let it be good and let it be bad. 

After the fashion of need. 

Tell me a story of war-time glory ; 
Let it ring with martial deed; 
And let it be brief and let it be long. 
And let it be weak and let it be strong, 
In the way that life hath need. 

Tell me a story of life, red with the blood of 

strife, — 
The color of blood indeed; 
To do and to dare and be brave with prayer. 
To live and to love and to take much care. 
Even as life hath need. 

Now rhyme me a riddle as fit as a fiddle, — 
And a fiddle is fit indeed, — 

[77] 



And let it be gay and let it be sad, 
And let it be good and let it be bad, 
After the fashion of need. 

You have told it all, you have told it well,- 
Up to Heaven and down to Hell; 
There's no need for me to tell. 
The day is done and the sands are run ; 
'Tis time for the vesper bell. 



[78] 



BY THE SAME AUTHOR 



THE BOOK OF THE SERPENT 

Original, piquant, delicately c^Tiical. . . . The story 
of Creation, the theory of evolution, and the main 
points of worldly wisdom are satirized with a gentle 
deftness that neither rouses to wrath nor yet exciteth 
to laughter, but touches us and makes us smile and 
think. . . . There is no denying that at times this 
little book wears the astonishing aspect of an indi- 
vidual creation of a world-myth. ... A unique mor- 
sel of sly humor for the elect. — Xew York Times. 

EVE 

An epic of the beginning and the end, — too serious 
in its solemn, slow music to give us humor, too in- 
tent upon its revelation to place its message in other 
than what will appear to the la\Tnan occult terms. 
It is the voice dimly heard of the higher urge that 
stirs woman, the thing that we miscall feminism, the 
groping toward certain nobler rax:es now dimly imag- 
ined. — Review of Reviews. 

CANDLE FLAME 

Delicate as a moonstone set in silver. . . . Katha- 
rine Howard has, above all things, originality, and 
to this she adds a poetic mysticism and a tricksy 
sense of humor — elements which at first seem incom- 
patible. That she enjoys her own philosophies and 
whimsies is ever evident. The reader perceives a 
rich and singular personality through the mist of 
this delicate occultism, this iridescent humor, this 
evasive loveliness of broken verse. — Elia W. Peattie 
in Chicago Tribune. 

Each $1.00 net; by mail, $1.0S 

SHERMAN, FRENCH & COMPANY 
Publishers 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS | 

015 873 519 2 ^J 





